Ghost Eyes
by cgmerrygc
Summary: John is barely dealing with the loss of his best friend. Little does he know that the shock of his life is just around the corner, and it will turn his life upside down once more. Trigger warnings for mentions of suicide & drug use.
1. Chapter 1

His eyes flickered open, the warm sunshine flooding his vision. He had fallen asleep in the armchair for the fifth time that week.

"Sherlock, you left the curtains open again," he protested aloud. He blinked a few times and suddenly his stomach lurched forward in remembrance.

How long had it been now? The days and months had blended together so much that the doctor didn't even know what season it currently was. To John, it had seemed like it had been sixty years since the day that Sherlock had jumped off the building, but in reality about 9 months had passed.

He leaned over as his back protested, and shoved his head in his hands, letting out a heavy sigh. John could feel his heart start to beat faster at the thought.

 _Why didn't you let me help you? Why did you NEVER let me help you?_

His head ached with the memories. John clenched his jaw tightly, and with a grit of his teeth, he forced himself out of the chair and into a standing position.

He had thrown himself into his work after what had happened. The only thing that remotely seemed worth rising for every morning was the chance to help people. He needed that, as if fixing anyone would bring the detective back.

John stared at some patient files, squinting his eyes. A line of darkness crossed his vision in his right eye, and did not dissipate after a shake of his head. This had been intensifying lately.

At first it was just blurriness, but now the line was there even with his eyelids shut tightly. He refused to conduct any tests on himself, not afraid of what he might find, but rather just not caring at all. To him, there was no point.

Every night he would dread going back to Baker Street. Dread finding it empty. Sure, Mrs. Hudson was there, but it wasn't the same. Nothing was the same.

Once the flat had been a place of solace and excitement, but now it was just a harsh reminder of everything he had lost. 221b didn't even feel like his home anymore. He had come to learn that home isn't where you live. It's that feeling that he would never get back.

He didn't even know how Sherlock had become such a driving presence in his life. The man had been an ignorant, obsessive, self-centered bastard. He couldn't even remember Lestrade's first name for Christ's sake!

Greg had reached out to John many times since the funeral.

 _Come have a drink, yeah? Dinner with the wife and kids... At least drop by the precinct once in a while._

He couldn't bring himself to do it though, any of it.

After work he always did the same thing, went back to Baker Street and blurred everything out.

Switching on the tele before plopping down on the sofa, John caught a glimpse of the nearly empty bottle of scotch on the table to his left. A jolt of guilt rushed through his body.

Was it really guilt, or regret?

He thought back to that night a few months ago. He had made the mistake of carefully studying Sherlock's violin while the program on the tele blared. His eyes drank in every last detail.

God, what he wouldn't do to hear those notes being played again. He couldn't bear the thought of it being forever silenced. Before he knew it, that once unopened bottle was drained and rushing through his veins.

He had found a small bag of Sherlock's drugs in the violin case. _The greatest detective with the worst hiding spot..._ he thought with a shake of his head.

Something came over him then, whether it was a longing to be rid of this constant pain or a desperate way to be closer to an understanding of his flat mate, he immediately downed all twelve pills without a second thought.

A few moments passed before he realized what he'd done. He was just as bad as his sister, Harry, trying to drown her misery out. What was he thinking, mixing alcohol and medication? Who even knew what it was that had just entered his body.

Just as quickly as they had gone down, after a poke at his throat, they were right back out of him. John laid on the icy tile of the bathroom floor, not knowing how his life had come to this.

 _Don't be dead. Just, for me. Just stop it, stop this._

He was whispering to no one, the empty air the only witness to his pleads of despair.

John tried to bring his thoughts back to the present.

The dark line across his vision returned briefly. He tried to blink it away and this time, after a few moments, it finally disappeared. That's when he realized what program was on.

It was the one that they had always watched together. Sherlock sprawled out on the sofa, John in the armchair, scoffing at the detective who was always ranting about how some event of the story was stupid or impossible.

It was muted, but he knew every word. Could recall every detail of flaw spewing from Sherlock's mouth. Suddenly, his face felt flushed and something stung the corner of his eyes. For the second time that day, he brought his hands to his temple.

When he steadied his breathing and looked up once more, a sense of wrong came over him. He turned slowly to where the precious violin was always perfectly perched. But it was gone.

John almost fell off the chair at the sight. Who would _dare_ touch the instrument? He quickly rose but stopped immediately. Goosebumps started to grace the back of his neck.

A quiet melody began fluttering into his ears. The very first note instantly brought tears streaking down John's face. The second threw his heart into his stomach. His breath caught in his throat. His whole being screamed at the trick, knowing it wasn't possible.

His hands began to shake uncontrollably as he finally built the strength up to start to turn about. His legs betrayed him, nearly buckling as his eyes met their mark.

The room was only lit up by the program on the tele, but John could make out a distinct silhouette. Tall, skinnier than Sherlock, but draped in the same coat.

He grasped ahold of the armchair as he took a step toward the figure, steadying himself. The shadow also started closing the gap between them and halted as it came into the light. Still playing, emerald green irises darted out from above the instrument, searching John's face. As the last note was performed, he gently placed the violin onto the table next to him, never breaking eye-contact.

The doctor swayed again, trying to swallow the lump in his throat as he peered up at the man.

"Sher… Sherlock?" was all he could muster. The detective let out a small smirk.

Bile suddenly rose up into John's throat, and with all of his might he swung at Sherlock, slapping him clear across the face. The detective recoiled and brought a soothing hand up to his cheek, but only momentarily. He knew he deserved that, but he put that thought out of his mind. There was little time.

"No. Sherlock no. Just stop…" John squeaked as his old friend finally reached him.

The doctor made an effort to raise his arms to block the man, but it was a halfhearted attempt at best.

The detective slowly cradled John's head in his hands and gently pressed it to his chest. He wrapped his gangly arms around the doctor, letting out a sigh of relief himself.

John was sobbing now, recognizing that their encounter was completely and utterly real. Sherlock bit his tongue, both knowing how much he had put John through, but also identifying how badly he too had wanted this moment to be real.

They stayed like that for what felt like ages, neither wanting to break the embrace for fear it would disappear forever, yet again. Anger returned to John and he sharply pushed the detective to arm's length.

"HOW could you? How could you do that to me?" he stuttered. He was barely able to breathe and the sentence came out more like muffled hums.

Sherlock's thin face actually looked pained. What had happened to him this past year?

"Moriarty," he said simply.

The doctor's thoughts swam. Of course it had something to do with him. Of course he wasn't dead in a ditch like he was supposed to be. John immediately wanted to encase Sherlock in a giant bubble, shielding him from whatever that monster had planned for him next.

"John, I can't stay. I have to go back to him."

Sherlock saw that the doctor was about to keel over. He took his arm and guided him back to the armchair. Why did he know everything? That annoyed John to his core.

"You can't breathe a word of this to anyone, not even Mrs. Hudson. _Especially_ Mrs. Hudson!" he added, trying to lighten the mood and failing to do just that as John grimaced back at him.

"Moriarty cannot know that I've been here. It would destroy everything. I just needed…"

Alarm bells rang loudly in John's head. _You're working with him?!_ He wanted to scream at the scrawny man. But he knew that Sherlock had no time to explain at the moment, so he was just going to have to trust him.

Sherlock lifted the doctor's hand and entwined their fingers for a brief time, trying to reassure both of them that this would not be their final parting.

" _It's ok._ "

" _It's not ok._ "

" _I know, but it is what it is._ "

The dark line returned to John's vision as he clamped his eyes shut, his mind refusing to feel the detective pull away.

And with that, Sherlock was gone again.

[END CHAPTER 1]

A note from the author: this is my very first fanfic! I would love to hear anything that you thought about it, the praise and the criticism. This only took about 2 hours to write (it was more like word vomit haha) and maybe an hour of editing. Thinking that there might be another chapter or so if people find it interesting. Thanks so much for reading!

Also, sadly I do not own Sherlock.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock had entered the flat long before John.

Realizing that the doctor wasn't there, he kept himself occupied by deducing what John had been doing while he had been gone. He walked around the rooms and drank in the familiarity.

The teapot had been used consistently, that was for sure. His violin case was completely dusty, although the top layer had apparently fallen off. It had surely been opened recently.

His gaze fell upon the empty bottle of scotch. Sherlock instantly understood what had transpired that night.

The good doctor had gotten plastered, and then was drugged. No, that wasn't it. Sherlock looked again at the violin case and then shook his head despairingly.

No wonder he didn't remember any of their last encounter. The doctor must have thought that he had gotten the pills out of his system, since that combination would have proved fatal. But enough had been absorbed to make a difference.

In his grief, John had in fact drugged himself. The fool. Mycroft was right, caring was certainly not an advantage.

 **SHJWSHJWSHJW** **SHJWSHJWSHJW** **SHJWSHJWSHJW** **SHJWSHJWSHJW** **SHJWSHJWSHJW**

Sherlock sprung upright and gasped for breath. The oxygen pouring into his lungs was doing nothing to clear up all the confused thoughts smothering his head.

The last thing he remembered was… Reinchenbach.

But wait, wouldn't that mean he was dead? He glanced around and the cold metal table he had been laying on indicated that he was in the correct place for that conclusion.

"Ohhh you were faking? I was faking tooooo!"

A shiver ran down the detective's spine at the appearance of that unmistakable voice. He drew the thin sheet surrounding him closer.

"What have you done?" Sherlock's voice was hoarse, but still operational.

His mind worked quickly as the key words to unlocking this mystery echoed in Sherlock's head.

" _As long as I'm alive you can save your friends. You got a way out_."

And then Moriarty raised the gun and shoved the barrel in his mouth.

As Jim pulled the trigger, the detective heard a distinct hissing sound just like the guard had described when he had stolen the crown jewels.

In hindsight, it was sure to be some chemical element that would slow his pulse down enough to be almost untraceable.

Sherlock was still puzzled about where the bang came from.

Looking back on it, there was no blood when Moriarty fired the gun. There should have been tons. The bright red only stained the pavement when his head hit it. Must have been a hidden packet. Clever.

Sherlock had been too distracted, too overcome with emotion to notice the subtle things that he normally would.

He had even been so foolish to not check if Moriarty was actually dead.

"You didn't think that the game was overrrr did you now?" Jim's typical drawn out sentence snapped the detective out of his reverie.

"I don't understand. Why go to all this trouble?"

"You always ask the right questions Sherlock. You don't care about how you got to this point, you just want to know why. Why did I save you?"

"I saved you because I owed you. Told you that right from the beginning. I owed you the opportunity to destroy yourself, your public image, and most of all, your friends."

"Ohhhh we are going to have sooo much fun, you and I!" Moriarty squeaked with delight, and then sneered.

Sherlock felt sick, knowing there was nothing he could do that would make a difference. Jim was going to keep him as a companion and use the fondness he felt for his friends against him.

"I told you that I would burn the _heart_ out of you."

 **SHJWSHJWSHJW** **SHJWSHJWSHJW** **SHJWSHJWSHJW** **SHJWSHJWSHJW** **SHJWSHJWSHJW**

Nine months had passed and Sherlock time and time again had proven useful as Moriarty's invisible right hand man.

The worst part about the whole thing was that Sherlock began to realize that he was enjoying himself.

He hated the thought. Completely despised it. He was only supposed to be doing this for the benefit of his friends. Maybe Jim was right, and they were more alike than he originally had thought.

What would John think of him now?

He knew what others would think, Donovan had been bold enough to state that one day Sherlock would be the one putting bodies at crime scenes.

Sherlock wasn't actually murdering people, but he wasn't exactly preventing them either.

"I brought you a presentttttttt."

Moriarty basically pranced into the room, followed by one of his big goons. Slung over his shoulder was a small figure, definitely unconscious.

Sherlock rubbed his hands together quickly in excitement. "What have we got today?"

The man was unceremoniously dropped into the dentist's chair. Sherlock's breath hitched in his throat.

A groan escaped from the figure's mouth, followed by an almost indiscernible " _Don't be dead_."

John Hamish Watson sat in the chair before him.

The detective immediately reeled on Moriarty with wide eyes. He had followed the rules. He had stayed away. "You promised he would be safe!"

"And so your friend shall remain as long as I do."

Sherlock gathered all the courage he could muster and tried to appear like this turn of events didn't affect him as much as they both knew it did.

"He's just my colleague." He thought back to when it was John stating the lack of emotion about Sherlock, when they had first started getting to know each other.

There was no denying that there had always been a connection between the two men.

"Not anymore." Jim corrected. "You work with me now, remember that. And to demonstrate that you won't forget it, I have a wondrous task for you!"

Moriarty held up an object the size of a pinhead. Dread filled Sherlock's stomach. He had seen that device before. He had quite enjoyed implanting it into others, but now he recognized that those had just been practice for this more important procedure.

"I see that you are aware of what this is. The smallest explosive known to man, affectionately named the nanobomb. I like to call it insurance."

He was defeated. The smug smile on Moriarty's face told him so. He had no choice.

He took a deep breath and removed his fingernails from digging deep into the palms of his hands. He hadn't even been cognizant that he was doing that in order to not lose control.

Sherlock raised the 18 guage needle with an additional sedative and carefully injected it into John's neck. "John…" he whispered in the doctor's ear "…I'm sorry."

John's eyes ceased fluttering and became completely still.

"Oh don't you worry your prettyyyy little head Shirley! I'm sure there won't be MANY side effects." Jim cackled at the detective.

 **SHJWSHJWSHJW** **SHJWSHJWSHJW** **SHJWSHJWSHJW** **SHJWSHJWSHJW** **SHJWSHJWSHJW**

At some point Sherlock found himself at John's desk. Opening the drawers one at a time revealed nothing particularly fascinating. Until he reached the top right one, that is.

There lay John's gun. It was where it always had been, but the aspect that caught the detective's attention was how clean it was.

He shuddered at what that revelation meant. Sherlock didn't want to play the game any longer, and he closed the drawer with a thud.

Suddenly he heard another noise coming from downstairs. The doctor had returned.

[END CHAPTER 2]

Authors Note: Sadly I do not own Sherlock. : ) Hopefully I haven't scared anyone away just yet! This chapter was a bit more tricky to write, and I'm crossing my fingers that the timeline jumping wasn't too confusing. Let me know what you think! And as always, thanks for reading.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock was alive.

No that couldn't be correct, his brain spat at him. This had to be one of his dreams.

John instantly knew that wasn't the case. All of his dreams about Sherlock ended the same way. Never happy, always with blood strewn everywhere on the pavement below that horrifically tall building he had seemingly flown off of. Always with John flung awake with screams.

Sherlock was alive.

The doctor again shoved his head in his hands, but this time squeezed in a bout of rage. He was still livid at his friend for everything. Didn't Sherlock know how torturous these last 9 months had been? Of course he didn't, he was Sherlock and didn't care about anyone but himself.

Sherlock was alive.

He bit his tongue and took a steadying breath. That last thought wasn't fair he realized. Sherlock must have his reasons for what he did and John just didn't understand them at the present moment.

But what were they? Who in their right mind would ever consent to having a partner like Moriarty? It hit the doctor then that Sherlock might be under the influence of something. He thought back to the man's appearance in the apartment. Sherlock looked well enough, albeit a bit skinnier than usual. The man had always been small, and John didn't know how it was possible that he was even tinier now. But other than that detail, he seemed healthy and not in distress at all.

Sherlock was alive.

John had to swallow the lump in his throat that was threatening to burst out of him. The thought that the greatest detective in the world, that his friend had in fact survived was too overwhelming to bear.

He had been in the flat. He had played the violin. He had grasped his hand.

John felt queasy again and dizzy as though he hadn't eaten in days. When was the last time he had eaten anyways? He thought about his own weight that had been plummeting. It was an amusing conclusion that the two men were fat and happy only when they were together.

It was at this moment that Mrs. Hudson rapped on his door and let herself into the room.

"Got a bit of tea and a sandwich here for you dear."

Mrs. Hudson was constantly checking on the withering man, trying everything in her power to lend her support to the doctor. She knew her attempt at a snack would prove fruitless, but much to her excitement, John immediately snatched up a sandwich half and started munching.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." he said appreciatively with his mouth full.

Beaming, she left the room feeling quite victorious.

Sherlock was alive.

Just as John was finishing the much needed nourishment, Mrs. Hudson reappeared looking more concerned than before.

"John, there's someone here to see you. Asked me to come fetch you for him."

"A client?" John wondered aloud. Everyone knew that Sherlock was dead and the team was disbanded. John was only a doctor now.

She shrugged and started to grab the food tray next to him. John pulled on his jacket and walked down the stairs.

He should have known. At the curb of 221b was a little black sedan with an unfamiliar looking fellow instantly opening one of the rear doors as John came into view.

This could only mean one thing. Mycroft requested his presence.

Demanded it really. John remembered a time where he had tried to avoid the audacious man, only to end up meeting him at his destination anyways. There was no dodging it. The doctor reluctantly slipped into the back seat of the car as the door shut quietly behind him.

Sherlock was alive.

Usually Mycroft liked to meet in strange secluded places, but this time the vehicle headed in the direction of Pall Mall. John of course had been there on a few occasions, but it always was very uncomfortable to be in pure Mycroft territory.

The doctor was already uneasy as it was. It had to be absolute coincidence that he had been summoned on the same day that Sherlock had revealed himself to him. It _had_ to be.

John hadn't seen Mycroft since Sherlock's service. He resented the man for not doing more. He always seemed to have every aspect of the British government at his disposal, but somehow hadn't intervened when it came to the fate of his little brother.

For a man who so valued his work and not his family, it wasn't surprising that Mycroft didn't even appear the least bit haunted at the service. Still, that comprehension punched hard at John's gut. Sherlock had always held Mycroft in the highest regard. This wasn't outwardly apparent of course, but the observant doctor could plainly see it. Mycroft could do no wrong in the detective's eyes, and John surmised that Sherlock had looked up to him greatly as his idol.

Even after everything that John and Sherlock had accomplished and aided the British government with, Mycroft had brushed it off as only duty. Mycroft had never once shown appreciation or any sign of attachment at all to his brother. The man was almost a machine.

Sherlock was alive.

The opening of the sedan's door startled John from his thoughts. Breathing deeply, he pulled himself out of the vehicle and followed the man into the building. The stiff associate opened the double doors to Mycroft's office and shooed the doctor into the room.

There he stood. Erect and very jerky-like in his movements. _Machine_ John thought again.

"Ah, Doctor Watson! Come in, have a seat."

John shook his head as the double doors were closed behind him. "Why am I here?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the statement.

"You're here because I want you to be."

Typical, the doctor thought. The world revolves around Mycroft and he always gets what he wants.

"Sherlock is alive, as you now know."

John looked as if Mycroft had murdered his puppy. It couldn't be true. "You… _you_ knew?"

"My dear doctor, of course I knew. I know everything."

John did sit down now, if only to keep from hitting a second Holmes sibling in the same day.

"We had been for some time working on a plan to bring Moriarty down, which included giving Moriarty control of the situation, and which we agreed that you would have to be kept out of for reasons of discretion" the elder Holmes brother said matter-of-factly.

It was as if Mycroft had stabbed the doctor, and now he was twisting the blade with every word he spoke. John couldn't bring himself to respond. Once again he felt utterly wounded by his best friend.

Mycroft sensed John's hesitation.

"John, it was the only means necessary. Don't take it personally and let your ego rule the day. Remember there is one thing that matters."

Sherlock is alive.

The words rang in his head a million times. He knew that his life had just been thrown upside down once again by the reappearance of the detective, of his friend.

"And we need your help." Mycroft said.

[END Chapter 3]

It's been awhile! Hope you enjoy. And as always, sadly I do not own Sherlock.


End file.
